The Chronology of Water. Lidia Yuknavitch
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a daughter. The cigarette smoke nearly cinematic. I sat in silence, my very skin knew the tyranny of speaking. My mother twisted a lock of hair until I thought it would lift off of her head. Why did he say no? Because he could.
The third letter came from Cornell.
The fourth from Purdue.
No.
At a kitchen table in Florida.
All the rooms of our house carried the weight of father. All of them except one. My bedroom held the wet and dark of my body. It smelled like my skin and chlorine and pot. The two windows in front had long been my portals to the night life of escaped girls. In July, on a night so thick with sweat lesser girls would have suffocated, alone in my bed I decided a leaving. I was leaving, and I didn’t care how. I masturbated so hard that night I scratched my skin raw. Just before I went to sleep, I pictured a suitcase. The biggest one we owned. It rested silently in the garage behind my father’s golf bag and boxes from former lives. Black and as big as a German Shepherd. Big enough to fit the rage of a girl.
At the preliminaries for State that year I sat in the locker rooms with Sienna Torres killing a fifth of vodka. If we’d been sons about to be men, I bet we would have taken one of our father’s cars and headed for Canada. Or took our first punches at authority, not minding the black eye. Instead we sat on the concrete underneath the disgusted gaze of shaved and wellbehaved athlete girls and drank.
Even loaded I qualified fifth for finals in breaststroke. At finals, a woman I didn’t know with stringy blond hair and glasses thick as a Florida cola bottle came up to me after I got second in the 100 breast. I swam a 1:07.9. She looked like a stoner. She said she was the coach at Texas Tech, and that though she couldn’t talk about it standing there like that, me dripping with water and underage rage, she would call me the next day to talk about a full ride. I didn’t say anything. When my breathing stilled, I looked up at my drunk mother in the stands. She was sort of rocking. I hoped she’d stay up there. My mother: the only thing I knew of Texas sitting up in the stands, slurring her speech.
When the coach of Texas Tech called my home, my father was at work. I talked to the woman with the stringy hair and thick glasses on the phone. There was my mother’s voice, its sweet southern drawl curling around my shoulders - like honey does to bees - and there was this woman’s voice and there was me. Saying yes. Yes.
Wouldn’t it be great if that’s all there was to it? A mother’s voice soothing the way for her daughter to leave. Blonde swimmer girl gets on a plane, bye bye y’all.
A week later, when the papers came to sign, my father was at work. My mother signed them. I remember watching her hand, a little stunned. She had beautiful handwriting. Then she put them in the envelope, grabbed her car keys, and told me C’mawn. In her southern drawl liquor voice. In her real estate station wagon. Driving to the post office with her and watching her drop my freedom into the blue metal mouth of the mailbox-I almost loved her.
All the rest of July he raged. And August. Every day when he came home from work he’d find another way to fill the house with rage, shake the walls with shame, while the little women took it and took it. Sometimes I thought he might kill one of us. But I was not afraid. In the palm of my bedroom I could feel the walls pulse.
Once that summer during a rage run my father threw a plate at the sliding glass door. I waited for the shatter but nothing happened. Another night he ripped my swim bag to shit, my suit and goggles flying into the air. Once he followed me all the way to my bedroom door. I could feel his words at my smoldering shoulders. He stopped in the doorframe. When I turned to face him, he was shaking with anger. Then he said, “This is control. I’m controlling myself. You don’t know how far I can go.” We stared at each other.
I thought: this is your daughter leaving, motherfucker.
But other nights he’d become the man whose desire had twisted up inside him. The closer we got to my exit. On an August night with rain as hard as drums he sat me down on our living room couch. He put his arm around my shoulders. He rubbed my far arm with his big thumb in creepy circles. His voice was more calm than is possible to make a voice. Then he narrated what boys would want to do to me, how they would put their dirty hands up my skirt and part my legs and finger fuck me. How they would reach inside my shirt and fondle my tits and grab my breasts. Suck them. How disgusting boys would be, their hands, their hot hips and breath, their wanting in and up. And what they would do with their dicks, me sitting there next to him on the couch feeling the heat of him touching his dick even without looking, my skin making pins, clenching my teeth inside my mouth, and him saying how I should say no, and how I could find the strength to say no by remembering I was his daughter, that he was the only man for me.
In my head: this is how you know he is insane. This is why to leave now.
I’d thought of leaving before. In the run away ways, but also the year my mother tried to commit suicide, my sister made a courageous return from the sanctuary of graduate school to see if I wanted to come with her. I was 16. Her coming and asking me - somehow it had been enough to get me through two more years.
I thought about the secrets I had stored up inside my body. How many times I’d crawled out my bedroom window to get in a car. The unstoppable fire between my legs. A fire not his. I thought about vodka. Nearly drowning. By the time he sat me on the couch to tell me I was his, I was miles away from daughter. A black suitcase making shape and story in my dreams. I felt like there was a muscle between us. The muscle was my sexuality. Not his.
Our filial showdown happened in our garage the week before I left, next to my mother’s station wagon and my father’s Camaro Berlinetta. I went there that night to get the black suitcase out of the garage. I planned to take it to my room and fill it and fill it. When I found it, I unzipped its mouth. It smelled like cigarette smoke. I opened it, and inside were two of my father’s shirts from some trip. I stared at the shirts until my neck prickled with anger. I took a wad of cloth from one and shoved it in my mouth and bit it at hard as I could - so hard my head shook. Then I took them out and put them in the trash.
When I got back, I explored every compartment of the suitcase. A tube of Certs. Part of a wrapper from a pack of cigarettes. A comb. Two condoms. I picked it up and shook it. Finally it was empty of him. I zipped its mouth. I stood up to take the black suitcase to my room, and then there was my father. I heard him before I saw him, and when I turned to face him he was standing just underneath the lonely garage dangle of a bulb, his head weirdly illuminated. Then he began to yell, a slow nonsensical roll at first, but humming quickly into a roar. Like engines on Camaro Berlinettas do. He called me a slut, he named my sins, he listed all my mistakes and shortcomings and shameful behaviors - all the acting out that lived up and through me to bring me to this daughter moment.
Maybe they were all true. Maybe he was right. Maybe I would become the slut fuckup he said. But I was also a very good swimmer. And he was not.
He grabbed my arm at one point, and though I could feel the bruise forming, I never let go of the handle of the suitcase. I felt I could swing it into his head any time I wanted. Somehow that night my girl shame and fear were nowhere in the room. I thought the thought of somebody’s son. You don’t know how far I’ll go, motherfucker.
I looked him in the eyes. Blue on blue.
I felt the width of my shoulders and the square of my own jaw. My adrenaline rushed up like before a race. Nothing he was saying was beating me down. I think maybe he saw that, because he shifted gears and began to rage about what I was doing to my mother - did it make me happy that it would kill her? My leaving? Just like my selfish shit of a sister? Is that the kind of person I was? A selfish bitch who wanted to kill my mother? You and your sister - such high and mighty assholes - you think you are so much better than anyone else?
My sister and I, we were selfish. We wanted selves. There was no rage or love that could stop us. That’s what opened my mouth.
Fuck.
You.
Motherfucker.
I said it again, louder, and again, until I was screaming it, screaming with the lungs of a swimmer. Then I